The Mentalist: In With the New
by Donnamour1969
Summary: The New Year is a time to reflect on past mistakes, and maybe even apologize for them. One-shot set in Season 5. Hint of Jisbon.


A/N: This one-shot is set mid-Season 5, with references to the last half of Season 4. Boy, do I miss those days, complete with Jane's obsession with Red John and hints of future Jisbon. I hope you enjoy this New Year's taste of _Auld Lang Syne_ , Mentalist style.

 **In With the New**

 _New Year's Eve, 2012_

Patrick Jane stood outside Teresa Lisbon's apartment, unusually hesitant. It was ten o'clock on New Year's Eve, and he knew she had plans to spend the evening alone, watching old movies and counting down to the New Year watching the ball drop on TV. The bottle of champagne he held seemed suddenly very heavy in his hand. He had a lot to make up for after this year, especially to her. In many ways the past year had been a turning point for Jane in his quest to find Red John, but it had come at the expense of Lisbon's grief and pain. He was sorry for that, but not yet sorry enough to give it up, not even for her.

He had high hopes that 2013 would put an end to all of this once and for all, but Jane knew himself well enough to know he would likely have to hurt her even more along the way to accomplish this. It was becoming more and more difficult to justify that in his mind, mainly because he loved her, but his obsession with Red John eclipsed any other relationship, and until he killed the bastard, he couldn't commit to anyone else. The saddest part was, he was pretty sure Lisbon knew all of this. But she hadn't been able to give up on him anymore than he'd been able to give up on Red John.

 _But here's some champagne, Lisbon_ , he thought morosely.

He almost left right then, but no one should spend New Year's Eve alone, and he could at least give her the pleasure of his company—if she still wanted it. He took a deep breath and knocked on her door, putting on his brightest smile.

It took her a minute to get to the door, and he was rewarded with the vision of her in plaid sleep pants and a CBI t-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a careless ponytail, her pretty face devoid of makeup, and she looked about eighteen years old. She was adorable. Sometimes it took him off guard how much she affected his heart rate, but it wouldn't be fair for her to know this. He'd barely managed to cover up his slip during the whole Vegas fiasco, when he'd accidentally told her he loved her. Another way he'd managed to hurt her.

"Hi," he said brightly, pushing aside his guilt out of long habit.

She didn't look happy to see him, but he knew she was trying to hide the painful truth that she was in love with him too. No woman would have put up with all the crap he'd unloaded on her over the years unless she loved him.

"What are you doing here?" No polite small talk for his Lisbon.

"I thought you might want some company to ring in the New Year." He held up the flowery bottle. "And I brought champagne."

He watched her debate whether or not to send him packing, but in the end she realized that he was alone too, and she always had a soft spot for the downtrodden. And there certainly weren't many people out there as downtrodden as Patrick Jane. She stepped back from the doorway to let him in.

He was met with the smell of microwave popcorn and the intoxicating scent of orange blossoms as he brushed past her and made his way to her functional living room. The TV was tuned to an old Rock Hudson, Doris Day movie, and there was evidence that she'd cocooned herself beneath a fluffy throw blanket on the couch. She took the bottle he offered with a faint smile of appreciation. He'd brought the expensive stuff.

"You want a beer?" she asked him, heading to the kitchen to put the bottle of champagne in to chill until midnight.

"Sure." He wasn't much of a beer drinker, but it was her home. He sat on the couch next to the blanket. His hand rested there, feeling the remnants of the warmth from her body. For some reason, he felt his face flush. He cleared his throat. "I love this movie," he said with what he hoped didn't sound like forced enthusiasm. "Doris Day was such a dish."

He heard her chuckle as the refrigerator door opened and closed. "I never would have taken you for a romantic comedy lover."

"My—" he'd almost said _my wife had loved this,_ but he'd instantly dropped the taboo subject and changed course to: "There are many things you don't know about me, Lisbon."

She plopped down beside him, proffering the beer she'd brought him. "Ain't that the truth," she said wryly, but she knew better than to pursue that line of conversation. "Why aren't you out with Cho and Rigsby? They invited you to go to that new club opening downtown. Free hors d'oeuvres, as I recall. That's all Rigsby could talk about."

They popped open their cans in unison. "Pigs in blankets weren't enough of an enticement for me, I'm afraid. Like you, a quiet evening at home sounds more like it."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, well, best laid plans…"

"You want me to leave? I really wasn't trying to interfere with your evening." But of course, he was.

She grinned in resignation, then put the bowl of popcorn between them. "Nah, that's okay, as long as you don't mind the lack of snacks. And remember that I retain the rights to the remote control." She glanced meaningfully at the remote on the arm of the couch.

"I get it: your house, your rules. Besides, I can handle watching Doris give Rock the what-for for an hour or two. That woman was no pushover."

"No," said Lisbon softly, her eyes suddenly glued to the actors on the screen. "She wasn't. But no matter how big an ass he was in these movies, she always took him back."

"After she very forcefully and cleverly put him in his place," he added, his eyes on Lisbon's delicate profile.

"Hm," she replied noncommittally. The movie was unexpectedly hitting too close to home, and suddenly she flipped the channel on the remote until she found another movie. A thriller this time. A blind woman was being tormented by an unseen assailant. She realized belatedly that Jane might not like the memories that provoked, so she changed the channel again to a New Year's Eve pop variety show. Jane grinned to himself, but didn't complain. They watched a few minutes in silence, save for the mutual munching of overly buttered popcorn and the musical stylings of Justin Timberlake. In the midst of this, Jane decided to apologize for his most recent transgressions. Well, most of them.

"It's natural to reflect on the year that's passed on New Year's Eve, wouldn't you say? For _Auld Lang Syne_ and all that," he began conversationally.

He felt her tense beside him, but he plowed ahead. "I've done a lot of things this year that I've regretted, and I'd like to offer my apologies."

She muted the TV and turned to look at him. He was surprised at how eager she seemed to rehash things. "But do you really? Regret them, I mean."

"The things that hurt you, I do," he said soberly.

"Interesting. Like what?"

"Lisbon—"

"No, seriously. If you're planning on apologizing, it's only fair I know exactly what you're apologizing for, don't you think?"

She was looking at him expectantly, but he noted that she wasn't quite as calm as she appeared. Beneath her t-shirt, her chest rose and fell in agitation. Well, he'd gone this far, and she was right; she deserved to know.

"Vegas, for one," he said at last. "For leaving you thinking I had gone off the deep end—"

"Which you had," she added.

"Well, maybe, in a manner of speaking. But what I did paid off. We got Lorelei."

"I thought you were apologizing, not justifying," she commented, annoyed.

"Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry for leaving you out of the loop. It was for your pro—yes, I'm sorry. I'll leave it at that."

"What you did led to Luther Wainwright's murder."

"Yes," he said solemnly. "For that I _am_ truly sorry. The kid didn't deserve that. I blame myself about as much as I blame Red John. Just add it to the growing list of deaths I'm responsible for."

She nodded, accepting his sincerity, but not offering him absolution. "But what about Lorelei? What you did…well, _with_ her. Are you sorry for that?"

He could tell it took a lot for her to ask this, and it was painful to watch the hurt reappear in her eyes. He wanted to tell her that he wished his first time with a woman since his wife had been with _her_ , not a serial killer's minion. Red John even knew how much Lisbon meant to him; why else would he have dressed Lorelei in a jacket just like hers, let alone sent a dark-haired woman to try to tempt him? It had certainly made it easier to have sex with Lorelei, made it easier to pretend…

"I'm sorry I had to take it that far," he said carefully.

"That's not the same thing."

"No," he said honestly. "But it meant nothing. She was the means to an end."

She was still hurt, but she'd long understood him and his motivations. "What else are you sorry for? Helping Lorelei escape maybe?"

He grinned at that. Lorelei's escape was still under investigation, and he didn't want Lisbon to be culpable should it come out that Jane had been responsible. "Nice try. I'm sorry you thought I was low enough to do such a thing."

She didn't blink; she had his number all right. "Yeah, me too. And along those lines, there's the matter of Erica Flynn. I'd bet my last dollar you helped her escape too."

"Now that, I didn't do. She tricked me as much as she tricked you."

"I don't believe you."

"It's the truth though. I know it probably seems like I'm crying wolf, but there it is. And before you ask, no, I didn't sleep with her." _I kissed her,_ he thought, _or rather she kissed me. But I let her. And I didn't hate it._ But he wouldn't tell her that, wouldn't tell her that kissing Erica and having sex with Lorelei only made him long for the touch of the woman he truly loved, but couldn't have.

"I wasn't going to ask."

"But you wanted to." He didn't embarrass her by asking why that was.

Her lips formed a straight line. "Fine. Next?"

"I'm sorry for anything I might have said and done under the influence of Belladonna."

She smiled suddenly, remembering when he'd been poisoned with the mind-altering plant. "You're forgiven." But she wouldn't elaborate, as he'd hoped. _What the hell_ _ **had**_ _he done?_

"Is that a blanket forgiveness, because I will certainly be willing to cut to the chase and offer a blanket apology for everything I did wrong this year, and will likely do in the next."

She shook her head. "No way. As a matter of fact, I'd like to do this again next year. It gives me a great deal of satisfaction to finally see you own up to your actions, at least a little bit."

"Fair enough."

He smiled at her, and as he had when they'd sat in the sand of the abandoned housing project in Vegas, he reached for her hand. It was cool, owing to her nervousness, and he squeezed it once before forcing himself to release it. Their eyes met, and she blushed, then looked back at the muted television. There was still one large elephant in the room, one she'd already addressed months ago when she'd asked him to clarify what he'd meant when he'd casually told her he loved her. His denial had been his biggest lie of the year, but for now, that was the way things had to be, for both their sakes. Someday he'd apologize for that too, as well as for the many times he'd ignored the fact that he loved her and hurt her anyway.

They drank their beer now with considerably less tension, and Lisbon turned the volume of the TV back up. They sat in companionable silence, neither of them really watching the New Year's show playing out before them. He was thinking about how easy it would be to give in to his feelings, to gather her in his arms on her couch and kiss her like he'd always longed to, to make love to her and promise never to lie to her again. But he'd made his choice, and like a priest who'd sacrificed a normal life for his church, Jane had forgone his love for Lisbon to devote his life to vengeance.

Still, when he felt Lisbon's head slide down to rest on his shoulder, when he looked at her sweet elfin face, so innocent in sleep, his heart clenched painfully, and for a moment, he forgot all his vows. It was close to midnight, and he'd been about to get up to fetch the champagne for their New Year's toast, but he didn't want to wake her now. For several minutes he studied the clear porcelain of her complexion, remembering how he'd missed her during those long, lonely months in Vegas. Her hair felt silky against his neck, and her fresh scent engulfed him with longing. In the background, the crowd gathered across the country in Times Square was counting down the last seconds of 2012.

He glanced at the screen just as the lighted ball dropped and the throng erupted into cheers, the melancholy strains of _Auld Lang Syne_ accompanying scenes of flying confetti, kissing couples, and champagne toasts. Before he could think about it, Jane lowered his head and pressed his mouth gently to Lisbon's slightly parted lips. She didn't respond, and he closed his eyes tightly against the bittersweet pleasure of it. Her lips were soft and pliant in sleep, but he didn't dare explore, didn't dare move. His throat tightened, his heart pounding with love and acute pain at his restraint. Behind his closed lids, he felt the sting of tears.

She stirred a little in sleep and he raised his head quickly, his lips tingling with the forbidden liberty he'd taken. She snuggled against his arm and he reached over her to draw the blanket around her body.

"Is it midnight yet?" she mumbled.

"Not yet," he lied, "go back to sleep."

Not even a minute had passed of 2013, and he was already two sins in. It gave a whole new meaning to the expression, _out with the old, in with the new_.

Maybe in a year, things would be different, he thought again, with the optimism of new beginnings, and she would smile when he confessed his stolen kiss, before freely kissing him for real. Until then, his penance would be to relive the feel of her warm lips beneath his with as much regularity as he obsessed over every hand he'd shaken since his wife and child were murdered.

And because Patrick Jane had a streak of masochism, he stayed where he was, Lisbon's head resting against him, till his arm went numb and four episodes of an old sitcom blurred together. He left her sleeping peacefully on her couch, a note stuck on her refrigerator with an angel magnet:

 _Save the champagne for next year. I accept your invitation. Happy New Year, Teresa._

 _Love,_

 _Patrick_

He'd debated giving her false hope by signing it with love, but what the hell? One more thing to apologize for next year.

The End

 **A/N: Happy New Year to you all!**


End file.
